


Berserker

by Pickles_Tickle



Series: Short Stories [1]
Category: No Fandom
Genre: A LOT of violence, Battle, Berserker - Freeform, Blood and Gore, Death, Gore, I'm Bad At Summaries, I'm Bad At Tagging, Racism, Reggae, Ulfhednar, Violence, War, kids killing kids, seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-25
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-07-17 11:18:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16094609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pickles_Tickle/pseuds/Pickles_Tickle
Summary: War. Racism. A condition treated like a different race. All I've known is war and bloodlust.





	Berserker

There are three kinds of people in this world.  
‘Reggaes’, or regular humans, which of course is the ‘best’ kind of people to be.  
‘Ulfhednar’, or ‘Ulfs’,which are just regular people born with the condition of being inhumanly strong. These people are often enslaved and forced into heavy labor.  
And then there are Berserkers, half-Ulf, half-Reggae beings who are stronger than both combined. They have the special ability to continue fighting no matter what, even as they’re dying. Get shot in the gut, they don’t go down until they’re dead. Those are the ones forced to fight front lines in battles.  
I fall into the last category, lucky for me. (Note the sarcasm.)  
My mom was an Ulf, my dad is a Reggae. Sexually abusive master-slave relationship. He couldn’t bear to kill a pregnant lady, no matter how much of a slimeball he is, so he killed her as soon as I was born and sold me to the military for a little extra buck.  
All my life I’ve known war. My first teething toy was a dud grenade. I learned to shoot a Luger before I was potty-trained.  
At fifteen years, I have seen the most war in my unit. Even more than the Reggae general leading me, as well as his Ulf dog.  
The unit is made up of twenty other Berserkers, as young as twelve and as old as fifteen. We’re the Militants. Today we go into another battle.  
A clear field. Civilian property.  
We’ve set up trenches in front of the one landmark in this damned place: A one-room wooden shack that will serve as the sickbay.  
I’m disturbed at how many young militants there are. Three units of twelve-to-fifteen-year-olds and a unit of sixteen-to-eighteen-year-olds. Being a Senior Militant past eighteen is no small feat. The Seniors are covered in scar tissue, and several are missing limbs or eyes.  
I sit on the steps, keeping lookout while cleaning and assembling my M16. I watch my squad members put up barbed wires and place mines.Glancing at my feet, I see a ragged picture frame, with a photo of a young girl, about my age, with dark hair and light-colored eyes. I can see the fear in her, as if she just saw something traumatic and is still mentally recovering.I drop the picture and survey the field.  
There are Reggaes, and even a few Ulfs, but I’m the only Berserker in my squad. Berserkers are rare, because no human wants to fornicate with an Ulfhednar.  
Just as I click the magazine in, I hear engines. I look up, seeing a dark green Chinook. I take shelter in the shade, yelling at my squadmates to get back.  
They look up, and immediately run over, abandoning the fence, right as the ropes drop and the enemy drops down.  
They’re tall, muscular, dressed like Black Ops forces. Seem to be Reggaes.  
Two shots to the head, and one of them falls.  
I duck, my gun smoking as the rest of the unit races out, their own guns blazing.  
My heart pounds in my head, in my chest, my eyes focusing as I point my gun back over the porch. I take aim and down three more Black Ops, just as three more helicopters drop in more.  
I curse and yell to my captain that their are too many.  
“I radioed in for backup, don’t worry!” he promises me. A grenade lands between us. I pick it up and throw it back, catching an Op in the chest and he goes bye-bye.  
A squadmate is shot in the shoulder. I cover a Reggae as he goes to drag them into the shed.  
I pull a knife from the sheathe on my leg, and throw it with deadly accuracy into another Op’s neck. He chokes and dies, and I run over and yank it from his neck, spraying me with his blood.  
I can feel my muscles rippling, my body reacting to the copious amounts of adrenaline running through me. I’m preparing to live up to my name and go Berserk.  
I close my eyes, hearing more choppers.  
Please no more soldiers, there are too many here already!  
But it’s not another Chinook. It’s a SeaHorse, one of ours! The reinforcements are here!  
I shoot down anyone who dares aim at the aircraft, taking down another half dozen. There are still over forty soldiers to go, and it’s down to my squad minus two, plus a few Reggaes from others, which leaves us with roughly fifteen or twenty.  
I take a deep breath and rush to meet the reinforcements. But something is wrong. They’re so… small. Their faces are round, hands are chubby and stumpy…  
Not one of them is over ten.  
What the hell is this?  
“Oh good, Junior Militants,” says the captain.  
WHAT?! It was messed up enough they had young teens fighting their battles, but now the Reggaes are sending fucking children to do their dirty work?!  
I turn around, shooting a grenade out of the air. There is no time to talk.  
Do or die time.  
Not one of these children will die.  
I yell at them to head to the shack as a rallying point, and to protect the injured inside.  
We rush back, shooting at the Ops as they aim for us.  
One child falls behind, but I stop and help him up, then push him back into the group.  
Then, it happens.  
Pain finds its icy grip on my back, warmth blossoming onto my skin.  
“The Berserker’s been shot! Everyone, MOVE!” screams the captain.  
The funny thing about us Berserkers, sometimes we don’t know who the good guys are when we go Berserk.  
I can feel my adrenaline spiking, my blood pressure shooting through the roof, my mind filled with nothing but one task:  
KILL.  
I’ve gone Berserk before, but never like this. The difference between Berserk and Total Berserk is the body. You only go Total if you’re dying.  
So this is what death feels like.  
Complete bloodlust.  
I jump into the front lines, grabbing the nearest black-clad human to me and ripping off their head.  
Roar as the blood stains my own fatigues, but I’m already gone to the next one. He takes aim, but before he has a chance to line me up in his sights, his head caves in from my fist, and the blow delivered to him.  
Blood screams as it rushes through my head, it hurts so much but at the same time, it feels so good, I feel so damn powerful.  
I grab a grenade launcher and break it in half, then throw it towards more soldiers. They scream as their legs snap beneath them, but are silenced when I rip their hearts out with my bare hands.  
Then I hear more screams.  
But they’re higher, shriller than the guys I’ve been killing.  
I turn and see a child, no older than twelve, hunker down as a guy pulls the pin from a grenade.  
Time seems to slow down.  
I run to them, my legs feeling like jelly, my vision fading.  
The grenade flies through the air.  
I fly across the field.  
Lands in front of a whole group of the so-called ‘Junior Militants’.  
One of them goes to jump on it.  
No. Someone is already dying today, we don’t need two people.  
I shove him out of the way, feeling his shoulder pop out of its socket from my pure strength. Oops.  
I hunker myself over the grenade.  
Three… two… one...

**Author's Note:**

> This was loosely based on a dream I'd once had, so I'm sorry if it seems kind of stringed together. And in case you were wondering, yes. This story is completed. The character died, and that's why it cuts off at the "one".


End file.
